Title: Restoration
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org 
LJ: http://diandrahollman.livejournal.com
Date Finished: 1/29/2017
Rating: Hard R working up to brief NC-17
Keywords: Hurt/Comfort, John/Sherlock, rape recovery, 
   emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, hurt Sherlock
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Not my characters
Summary: "You get the call in the dead of night. Early 
   enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but 
   late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at 
   such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong."
Author's Notes: This deals with the aftermath of sexual 
   assault. The actual assault is never "shown", but will 
   be partially described by the victim. I have never been 
   a victim of such violence, so I won't pretend I 
   understand what this is like, but I will endeavor to do 
   right by all the people who have survived something like 
   this.



Restoration
By Diandra Hollman


You get the call in the dead of night. Early enough for you to 
not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be 
distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless 
something has gone horribly wrong.

"John," Mycroft says by way of hasty greeting. "I need you to 
come to St. Bartholomew's as soon as possible. I am sending a 
car."

Your first horrifying thought is that Sherlock is dead. But as 
you swim up through residual layers of sleep you realize that 
Mycroft would not summon you with such urgency if it were too 
late. "God, what happened? Is he all right?"

Mycroft hesitates long enough to make it clear that he isn't. 
"He asked for you."

You pause in your frantic scramble for some clothes to put on. 
He asked for you. Therefore he is alive and conscious and able 
to communicate. Yet the tightness in Mycroft's voice and the 
fact that he even agreed to summon you tells you he is far from 
"all right". 

"I'll be right there."

**************

It is two a.m. by the time you reach the hospital, but you have 
so much adrenaline humming through your veins that you are wide 
awake. You keep kicking yourself for not being concerned when 
he didn't come home last night, for not trying to call, even 
though there are no indications that he tried to call you 
either. Did something happen to his phone?

You are directed to a private room and you realize that Mycroft 
has made sure everyone at intake knows who you are and allows 
you entry. You don't ask any of them for more information. They 
wouldn't know anything anyway. You are therefore unprepared for 
the sight that greets you on the other side of the door.

His face is almost unrecognizable beneath the swelling and 
bruises. His entire lower right arm is encased in a splint. You 
cannot see much of the rest of his body as it is covered by a 
hospital gown, but you can guess it is just as damaged as the 
parts that are visible. Worst of all, a nurse is attaching 
padded stirrups to the end of the bed while a doctor lines up 
tools and evidence collection bags for something you had hoped 
never to see again after your time in A&E. 

Rape kit.

"Doctor Watson."

Mycroft is standing beside the bed, his hand on Sherlock's left 
shoulder. He doesn't say anything else. Simply gestures for you 
to approach. You see him squeeze Sherlock's shoulder 
reassuringly before moving aside so you can take his place.

This close you can get a better idea of how extensive the 
damage is. For a moment, you find yourself cataloging the 
injuries and piecing together details of the attack just like 
he would. The attacker - attackers... there had to be more than 
one - was right handed because the worst of the damage is on 
the left side. Defensive wounds on both hands show he fought 
back, which might also explain his broken right arm. One of the 
bruises on his throat is in the distinct shape of a human hand. 
The eye that isn't swollen shut rolls in your direction and he 
gurgles an approximation of your name through puffy lips, his 
jaw barely unclenching. His good left hand reaches for you and 
you take it, mindful of the cuts and scrapes along the 
knuckles. 

"I'm here," you say numbly. You run the fingers of your other 
hand tentatively along the curve of his jaw, feeling sick as he 
whimpers. It isn't broken, but it may be dislocated. You 
swallow any questions you may have had. He may be able to 
answer, but you don't want to be the cause of any additional 
pain he would likely endure from the effort. "I'm here," you 
say again, helplessly.

"Mr. Holmes," the doctor says in a deliberately low, soothing 
tone. "Can you lift your legs for me?" She helps guide his legs 
into the supports one at a time, but it’s obvious she is doing 
the majority of the work. His breath catches a couple times and 
he makes a low whining sound he probably isn’t even aware of. 
You hear her slip on some gloves, but you refuse to take your 
eyes from his face. You can’t look.

"I'm going to start the internal exam now," the doctor warns in 
the same comforting tone. “I’ll try to be gentle. Tell me if 
you need me to stop."

He grips your hand tighter and makes a choking noise you 
recognize as an attempt to swallow the pain.

"Breathe, Sherlock," you whisper. "Look at me."

You notice the glassiness of his one good eye as he struggles 
to focus it on you and wonder how you didn’t see it before. 
“What are you giving him for the pain," you ask the closest 
nurse, barely looking up.

Two things happen at once. The nurse shakes her head and says 
something about waiting for a blood test to confirm. At the 
same time, Sherlock sluggishly taps the back of your hand in 
the unmistakable rhythm of Morse code. C13H16CINO.

"Ketamine," you murmur at almost the same moment as the 
surprised nurse.

'Needle,' Sherlock adds as the nurse talks about drug 
interactions and local anesthetics. '4. Poison. Snake. Sis-' He 
grips your hand suddenly, choking on a moan. 

"Sorry," the doctor says gently. "Little pinch."

You still his fingers with your other hand before they can 
continue their frantic beat. "Later," you murmur. "You can tell 
me later, yeah?"

You look away from him for a few moments as another nurse hands 
the collected evidence to Mycroft. It’s not until that moment 
that you realize there is a distinct lack of police officers 
present. Obviously either or both of the Holmes brothers has 
decided to keep the incident need-to-know. You catch Mycroft's 
eye and share a look of mutual understanding. You will both do 
whatever it takes to protect Sherlock - from public attention 
as well as the men who hurt him. He trusts you to handle the 
former. You can trust him with the latter. You nod, both an 
agreement and a promise, and he leaves, sparing one last pained 
look at his brother. You doubt you will see him again until 
after he has tracked down all of the men the rape kit 
identifies and ensured every one of them faces whatever form of 
justice he sees fit. 

"Okay," the doctor announces when she has finished her 
examination. "We're just going to put a couple stitches here 
and then we'll be finished."

Stitches. Jesus.

You steel yourself and concentrate back on his face, giving him 
a sad, watery attempt at a reassuring smile. "It's all right 
now. Just breathe."

'Breathing is boring,' you hear his voice groan in the back of 
your mind. You wonder, as you look at him now, so dazed and 
stripped of his defenses, not even rolling his eyes at your 
ridiculously inadequate attempts at comfort, if you'll ever get 
that Sherlock back. You shake your head to dispel the thought. 
No. He's stronger than that.

"Hurts," he slurs suddenly and your chest aches in sympathy.

"I know. I'm sorry. I think the ketamine is wearing off." This 
last part is directed at the nurse, who responds by checking 
Sherlock's vitals again.

"Right," the doctor announces, putting down her instruments and 
standing up. "You can put your legs down now."

Again, she has to help Sherlock do this, lifting his shaking 
limbs from the stirrups one by one. But this time she has 
barely lifted the second leg when a broken wail bursts from his 
throat. He flails, mindless in his pain, and you and the nurses 
rush to keep him still before he hurts himself further.

The doctor holds perfectly still through his thrashing before 
carefully lowering his leg and gently feeling his abdomen and 
pelvic bones. He yelps and convulses as she touches a spot near 
his groin. You reach to soothe him, mutter some horrible 
reassurances that you know he can't possibly be insensate 
enough to believe.

He looks at you and says your name and he sounds so *lost*. 
Somehow this is worse than all the men - boys, really - you 
treated on the battlefield. You're not sure if that's because 
it's Sherlock or because he is a civilian and this attack is so 
random and senseless.

"Let's have another look at the x-ray," the doctor tells the 
head nurse. "Where are we on blood work?"

"He's an addict," you blurt before the nurse can respond. "He 
has a high tolerance for drugs, but he can't..." You swallow, 
your mouth feeling impossibly dry, and look down at Sherlock, 
whose eyes have taken on that vacant look again. "Epidural. Can 
you give him an epidural?"

The doctor nods and gives orders to the nurse.

Sherlock has begun muttering under his breath. You can't make 
sense of the words except for the occasional repetition of your 
name. You lean close, burying your face in matted, bloodied 
curls, and continue your efforts to calm him, even though you 
suspect he has already retreated deep into the safety of his 
mind palace.

"I'm here. You're safe. I'm here," you whisper in his ear.

If only you could fool yourself into thinking that was enough.


**********

The hairline fracture to his pelvis is so small that it takes a 
specialist and a second scan to confirm it. Sherlock is put on 
bed rest for a week, his pain managed by epidurals and non 
narcotic drugs. It isn't enough, but you can't risk anything 
else. You hold him, distract him when it gets to be too much. 
Sometimes you just let him scream at you - and reassure him 
later when he begs your forgiveness. You help the physical 
therapists treat his jaw and guide him through exercises for 
his broken arm. You help the nurses bathe him, use a bed pan 
and give him sitz baths to ease the pain. You stand beside him 
when he practices walking again, ready to catch him if he 
falls, the physical therapist guiding from the other side of 
the walker as he shuffles painfully around the room. 

When he is able, he gives you detailed descriptions of the men 
who attacked him. You give them to Mycroft. Coupled with the 
DNA from the rape kit, you are confident he has all he needs to 
track them down. Especially considering Sherlock's descriptions 
were characteristically full of details about former prison 
sentences, likely origins of scars and meanings of tattoos, and 
the deduction that one of the four men has a sister who owns 
two cats. You don't know whether you are more proud or 
horrified to find that he was so alert while he was being 
beaten so savagely.

You almost panic when you arrive one day to find his bed empty. 
Before you can call someone - summon an alarm - you hear voices 
coming from the bathroom.

He is slumped on the closed toilet, his eyes closed. A nurse - 
Julie, you recall - is taking his pulse and steadying him with 
a soft hand on his back. 

"Everything all right," you ask quietly, not wanting to startle 
him.

"Just catching our breath," Julie says when Sherlock remains 
quiet.

You squat beside him and cradle his face between your palms, 
coaxing him to look at you. The pain and weariness in his gaze 
tells you more than mere words could. He may be getting better 
and stronger, but he has good days and bad days. This is not a 
good day. "Julie, could you get the wheelchair?" You are too 
focused on Sherlock to spare her much of a glance, but she 
understands. You see a spark of gratitude in his eyes as she 
removes the walker he used to get from the bed to the toilet 
and reappears less than a minute later with the wheelchair, 
situating it in the same spot and engaging the locks.

"Ready," you ask him.

He takes a deep, trembling breath and nods, reaching for your 
shoulders.

You stand, guiding him up with you, wincing as he chokes back a 
whimper and clutches the back of your jumper with his undamaged 
hand. 

"Slowly," you murmur in his ear. "I’ve got you."

You help him the few small, shuffling steps to the chair, 
bearing much of his weight as you ease him into the padded 
seat. 

"Give me a number," you prompt as you flip the footrests down 
and guide his legs onto them. "How bad?"

"Eight," he says softly between panting breaths.

You look at Julie and she nods. You both know that an "eight" 
for Sherlock is an "eleven" for anyone else. "I'll get the 
doctor," she says before quietly slipping out.

"Let's get you back to bed, yeah?" You pat his knee and force a 
smile.

He is quiet on the way back into his room, but you don’t think 
anything of it until you go to engage the brakes on the 
wheelchair again and spot a tear sliding down his cheek. You 
hesitate only a moment, uncertain if acknowledging this moment 
of vulnerability would be more humiliating than helpful, before 
gently wiping it away and cradling his face.

"I can't..." He says the words as if they are being torn from 
him against his will. Another tear spills over your fingers and 
you suspect he is referring to more than just his ability to 
get back into bed.

"Shh, it's all right." You kiss his forehead softly and gather 
him in a loose embrace, your cheek crushing the curls at his 
temple, trying to lend him your strength - even if you don’t 
feel particularly strong. You whisper reassurances until he 
stops trembling and his breathing steadies.

"Here." You guide his arms around your neck and position your 
own beneath his knees and behind his back. "Hold on."

It is less than five steps to the hospital bed. You know you 
won’t drop him.

He is barely able to swallow a whimper as you set him down - 
perhaps more heavily than you’d have liked. "Sorry," you 
mutter. "So sorry." You gently detangle yourself from him 
despite his slurred protests and hurry back to the loo to grab 
a flannel, wetting it with cool water.

By the time the doctor arrives to administer the epidural he is 
calm and you have washed away the evidence of his moment of 
weakness. He clutches your hands as the catheters are inserted 
(both in his spine and his bladder as he won’t feel the urge to 
urinate when his lower back is numbed).

Julie helps you get him comfortable - as much as is possible - 
before she leaves you alone.

"Try to get some sleep," you whisper, soothing his brow with 
your thumb, your entire upper body practically on the bed with 
him as you lean close. 

He squeezes your other hand. "Thank you," he mumbles.

You smile, kiss his healing knuckles, and watch as he drifts 
into an uneasy sleep.

***********

He only really sleeps when he succumbs to the exhaustion and he 
often wakes from nightmares with your name on his lips. You 
take to sleeping in a chair beside him, leaning on the bed, 
falling asleep with his hand in yours, beneath your cheek, or 
tangled in your hair.

The nurses take pity on you and arrange for a larger hospital 
bed to be brought in. It's more comfortable than sleeping in 
the chair but you don't sleep any better. You are too afraid of 
hurting him accidentally. He sleeps better, however, when he 
can burrow in your chest and hear your heart beating. When he 
can feel the warmth of your body curled protectively around 
him.

You sleep when he does and sometimes you barely wake up when 
the nightmares come, whispering sleepy nonsense into his hair 
until he stops shaking and his breathing deepens. 

The first time you help him bathe in an actual bath - the one 
back in 221b, which he insisted on using immediately upon his 
return from hospital - you have to fight back tears. The 
healing bruises on his body are a stark reminder of the 
violence he endured. It is horrific to contemplate how people 
can be capable of doing things like this to each other for no 
reason at all.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, shaking you from your 
thoughts. 

"How's that?"

"Don't look at me like I'm some broken...thing that you don't 
know how to fix. It's hateful."

You watch as he struggles to finish washing the parts of him he 
can reach with his non-dominant hand. "I don't think you're 
broken."

"Is that not the word?" he sneers. "How about ruined?"

"You're not ruined either." You snatch the flannel from his 
hand so you can finish washing the parts he can't reach. He 
huffs in annoyance, but doesn't resist as you scrub his good 
arm and back. "You are hurting and you are angry and - whether 
you want to admit it or not - you are scared."

"Stop it," he snaps. "Stop pretending you understand. You can't 
possibly understand what it's like to be beaten nearly 
unconscious, drugged and repeatedly sodomized. You don't know 
what it's like to feel your arm break under the weight of one 
man's knee and be unable to scream because another one is 
shoving his filthy penis so far down your throat that you can't 
even breathe. You don't know what it's like to realize that 
this is how you are going to die and it will not be heroic or 
even accidental but due to a random act of violence and your 
body will be found discarded in a back alley like some common 
prostitute."

You sit back, stunned into silence as he slides under the water 
for a moment and pushes sodden curls back from his face with 
his good hand. "Pass me the shampoo," he mutters, holding out 
his hand.

You reach for the bottle and squirt a generous amount into his 
palm, quietly watching as he washes his hair one-handed. He is 
still a bit clumsy, but he is getting better at doing some 
things left handed. You almost reach to help rinse the suds out 
of his hair - something he had found soothing when you did it 
in hospital - but stop yourself, certain that he would not 
welcome the gesture now.

You wait until he finishes and drain the tub, helping him climb 
out and sit on the closed toilet. You don't speak, except for 
the occasional quiet direction as you help him dry off and pull 
on a t-shirt and joggers.

"Do you want a shave," you ask, eyeing the two-day stubble on 
his chin. 

He shakes his head, sniffs and looks for all the world like a 
lost little boy. You want to hold him, but you aren't sure he 
will accept comfort from you just yet. 

You reach for his cane. "Can you manage the walk alone while I 
clean up?"

He nods.

You help him to his feet and watch as he hobbles from the room, 
reassuring yourself that he won't fall. Then you tidy up the 
bath and fetch some paracetamol and a glass of water.

You find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at 
the floorboards beneath his bare feet. He accepts the tablets 
from you with only a slight hesitation, swallowing them with 
half the glass of water. You gesture for him to finish it when 
he tries to hand it back to you. He does with little 
resistance. You set the empty glass on the floor and kneel 
before him, taking both of his hands in yours.

"I'm sorry," he finally says, watery, anguished eyes meeting 
yours. 

"It's okay," you say soothingly. "You're right, I don't 
understand. But I'm here. I will listen."

His tears well up despite his obvious efforts to hold them back 
and his lips start to tremble with his uneven breaths.

You sit on the bed and gather him in your arms before the dam 
breaks. He collapses into you, his body quaking with the force 
of his sobs, clinging to you like you are the only thing 
keeping him from drowning in a sea of pain and depression.

By the time the worst of the storm passes, you are laying on 
the bed with him draped over you, still clinging but no longer 
as urgently. You rub his back and neck, comb fingers through 
his damp hair as he talks in a broken voice, recounting the 
attack not in the detached way he did for the authorities, but 
in raw emotions. He talks about the fear he felt when the drugs 
they injected took effect and rendered him too weak to continue 
fighting. The pain and shock when the beating turned into rape. 
The cold of the night air on his bare skin. The horror of 
understanding that he might not survive - and not knowing if he 
really wanted to.

You cry with him until he is too exhausted to cry anymore. Then 
you cry for him. You murmur helpless apologies for all that he 
has suffered and promises to keep him safe from now on between 
kisses to his forehead, cheeks and, eventually, his lips. You 
taste the salt of your combined tears.

"Don't leave me," he whispers.

You know he likely only means it as a plea for you to stay 
while he sleeps. You never discussed whether you would continue 
the arrangement you'd had at the hospital once you returned to 
221b. But it doesn't matter. You clutch him tightly and vow 
"never."

**************

You cannot stay on leave indefinitely. One of you has to work. 
So you go back to the clinic and try not to worry about him. He 
is stronger, physically, but he still has nightmares. You doubt 
he will ever stop having them. It helps that he sends you the 
sort of texts he always has, aside from the one rant about not 
being able to play his violin as well as he used to (this will 
improve with time as his arm strengthens, you know. He just has 
to be patient). Mostly, it's grumbling complaints about Mrs. 
Hudson's "endless prattling" (you make a mental note to thank 
her for checking on him) and requests for you to bring home 
various odd supplies for whatever experiment he's conducting 
followed by "and we're out of milk".

His return to a mostly normal routine explains why you don't 
worry when he goes quiet one day, even if the last message he 
sent informed you that you were out of bleach and the kitchen 
towels were now hopelessly bloodstained. Which is why you are 
surprised to find him curled on the couch in the sitting room 
when you return to the flat.

"Everything all right," you ask as you hang your coat. When he 
doesn't respond, you know the answer is no.

You drop your bag on the chair hastily and kneel beside his 
head, feeling his brow and checking his pulse and pupils. 
"Speak to me, Sherlock," you plead. He seems fine, physically, 
but his eyes are bloodshot as if he's been crying. "What 
happened? Are you hurt?"

He doesn't reply, simply stares through you.

You follow his gaze and spot his mobile on the coffee table. 
You pick it up and turn on the screen to find his inbox already 
open to a text from Mycroft.

'Brian Hillcox is dead,' it says simply.

The tension bleeds from your body as you understand the 
significance. With his help, Mycroft had finally tracked down 
all of the men who had attacked Sherlock. Three have already 
been remanded into custody. Brian was the final suspect, and, 
you recall from Sherlock's testimony, the most vile. He was the 
one who had dislocated Sherlock's jaw and nearly choked him, 
both with his hands and his dick. He had only drawn a line at 
any further violation because he was as hypocritical as he was 
disgusting, a fact he made clear when he called Sherlock every 
homophobic slur he knew while holding him down so his buddies 
could have a go. 

You turn the mobile off and set it down before reaching for him 
again, covering his clenched hand with yours and rubbing his 
knuckles gently with your thumb. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

His eyes slowly focus on your face and you reward him with a 
smile. 

"I'm going to make you some tea."

He doesn't reply. He just blinks sluggishly and lets his gaze 
slide away again. You squeeze his hand and lean in to kiss his 
cheek, tasting long-dried tears.

You call the clinic while you wait for the kettle to boil to 
tell them you will need to take one more day off work. You 
don't want to leave him alone right now. 

You set your mobile beside his on the table when you return 
before coaxing him to sit up. He drags himself upright as if 
fighting the overwhelming pull of gravity. You wrap his hands 
around the cup and take a moment to kick your shoes off before 
sitting beside him, sideways on the couch, rubbing circles on 
his back while he sips numbly at the tea.

"Do you want to talk about it," you ask gently.

He sniffs.

You lapse back into silence. He doesn't need to explain what he 
is feeling now. You can guess. He may not have been innocent by 
any measure before the attack. You doubt he was a virgin as 
some claimed. But those men still took something from him. He 
isn't the same man he used to be. He can barely leave the flat 
anymore. He is terrified of being alone - this you recognize 
even though he would never admit it. He doesn't trust anyone 
but you. Not even himself. He clings to you even though you can 
tell he hates how pathetic it makes him feel. 

What he's experiencing now looks familiar to you even if you 
doubt he fully understands it. He is too rational and grief is 
too irrational. He is grieving; not for the men who did this to 
him, but for what they took from him. It doesn't matter that 
all the men who attacked him have been dealt with - faced some 
sort of justice. It doesn't change what happened to him. It 
doesn't undo the damage they did.

Sherlock sets his mostly empty cup on the coffee table and 
curls into your welcoming arms, his face buried in your neck.


Eventually, you wind up laying with your head on one of the 
pillows you keep on the sofa, Sherlock trapped between you and 
the back cushions, your legs entwined, arms wrapped around each 
other, pressed intimately together in the narrow space. It's 
not comfortable. You're pretty sure his tight grip is the only 
thing preventing you from falling to the floor. But you don't 
care.

"You're safe now," you whisper, kissing his forehead tenderly, 
feeling him tremble beneath your hands as you continue your 
efforts to soothe him. "I'm here."

***********

You can't keep him from going back to consulting work for long, 
so you try to at least steer him from the more dangerous cases. 
This doesn't prove all that difficult as he is more hesitant 
and takes fewer risks than he used to. He also still doesn't 
stray far from the flat without you, though he would deny this 
if you mentioned it.

The first time you venture back into the field you carry your 
pistol. It is more for your peace of mind than anything and you 
hope you don't find reason to draw it. Everyone treats Sherlock 
like he's made of glass at first. Donovan even offers to fetch 
tea for him. By the end of your first real case, though, they 
have all relaxed and fallen back into something resembling 
their old routines.

It's the second case where your slackened vigilance catches up 
to you.

It is all so easy. The criminal walks straight into your trap 
like a mouse going after a bit of cheese. And that's when 
Sherlock gets over confident, drawing the confession out of the 
suspect with all the delighted flair of a showman, gloating as 
he points out all the mistakes the killer made that made his 
guilt so very OBVIOUS. Suddenly, there is a knife in the 
desperate man's fist and - heedless of the police officers 
surrounding him, or perhaps simply uncaring - he lunges for 
Sherlock.

You react quickly, disarming the suspect and pinning him to the 
nearest wall, unsure if the officers shouting commands are 
telling you or the killer to "stand down". It doesn't matter. 
You hold him immobile until Lestrade can take over and cuff 
him.

"I've got 'im," he mutters. "See to Sherlock."

You turn to Sherlock, adrenaline still buzzing through you, and 
find him frozen, staring numbly at his bloodied hand. Your 
training takes over and you paw at his clothing in search of 
the source of the blood while you try to get his attention. 

"Sherlock? Stay with me. Where are you hurt? Sherlock! Look at 
me!"

His eyes focus on your face, wild and terrified, in full panic. 
He struggles to say your name between breaths so uneven and 
forceful that he is nearly choking on them. His body is 
beginning to shake. If he keeps this up, it won't be long 
before he passes out.

You abandon your search and cradle his head in your hands. 
"Look at me, Sherlock. Slow it down. Deep breaths. Look at me!"

His eyes can't stay focused, frantically searching for the 
danger that has already been neutralized. You feel it when his 
body starts to collapse, his knees giving out, and you catch 
him, slowing his fall. 

You sit behind him on the pavement, pulling him up against your 
chest, and speak directly in his ear. "Breathe with me, love. 
Just close your eyes and breathe. I've got you." You take deep, 
forced breaths yourself until he begins to unconsciously match 
your rhythm. "That's it," you murmur as he sags in your arms. 
"That's good, Sherlock. You've got it. Nice and steady."

You finally located the source of the blood - a slash along his 
side that is deep but not serious, his coat having deflected 
most of the blow. You pull his scarf from his neck and use it 
to stop the bleeding, murmuring reassurances when he issues a 
soft, broken whimper in response.

Lestrade squats beside you, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. You're 
not sure Sherlock even registers his presence, so focused is he 
on you to the exclusion of all other input, his eyes tightly 
closed. 

"I'll call an ambulance," Lestrade offers, reaching for his 
mobile. 

"Noooo," Sherlock moans, his hands scrabbling at your 
supporting arms. "No hospital. Please..."

You understand this, even if you would prefer to let somebody 
else treat his wound. He doesn't want to be surrounded by 
people right now. He needs calm and quiet and gentle 
reassurances. He needs the comfort and safety of home.

"No." You make sure to keep your voice low and calm. "Just call 
a cab. I can take care of him back at the flat."

Lestrade looks at your hand pressing the scarf to Sherlock's 
side. "Sure?"

"It's nearly stopped bleeding. Just needs a few stitches. I can 
handle it."

He nods, trusting your judgment. "I'll drive you."

He goes to hand the suspect off to Donovan. You don't hear what 
they say, but you see her bend the suspects arm just a little 
too far, drawing a yelp from him. 

"'m sorry," Sherlock mumbles. 

"Shh...just keep breathing. It's fine."

"No," he moans softly and draws his knees up, hands fumbling 
for the edges of his coat. You mistake this as an instinctively 
seeking of warmth and abandon your efforts to put pressure on 
the cut so you can wrap the coat tighter around him and rub his 
arms. 

It isn't until Lestrade returns to help Sherlock into the back 
seat of the car that you realize he was trying to hide the 
urine stain on the front of his trousers. He is shaking so 
badly he can barely stand and has to lean on you to walk, but 
he still looks away from you in shame when he catches you 
looking at this evidence of his fear. You wonder how many times 
your heart can break for him.

"It's fine," you assure him as you help him ease into the 
leather seat and climb in right after. "It's perfectly normal."

He remains silent the whole way home, staring blankly out the 
window, his hand clutching yours tightly.

He leaps from the car the second it rolls to a stop and runs 
into 221B. You follow as quickly as you can while still taking 
the time to thank Greg (promising to text him later) and 
reassure a startled Mrs. Hudson hovering at the bottom of the 
stairs.

You find him in the shower, hunched over, arms wrapped tightly 
around himself, shivering despite the heat of the water, which 
is turning slightly pink from the blood. You turn off the tap 
and wrap him in as many towels as you can get your hands on 
before settling him on the edge of the bath so you can stitch 
the wound. 

"I can't stop shaking," he whispers when he finally breaks the 
silence. 

"I know. It's okay." You keep your voice low and even, your 
touch careful as you finish the stitches. "I ever tell 
you...the first week I got back from Afghanistan...I was just 
walking out of Tesco when a car backfired. By the time I 
figured out what it was I was on the ground, reaching for my 
weapon, which, of course, I didn't have. I just sat staring at 
the box of cereal it had taken me twenty minutes to decide on 
spilling out onto the curb and I cried." You tie off the last 
stitch and cover the area with gauze, taping the edges down 
smoothly. "PTSD is normal. It doesn't make you weak. It makes 
you human."

His hands are in your hair suddenly, pulling you into a frantic 
kiss. You don't fight it. After a minute he sags into your 
arms, his face buried in your neck, still trembling faintly.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah?" It's still early, but he could 
use some rest before considering dinner. You'll probably get 
takeout again if you get hungry. It wouldn't be the first time 
you've eaten in bed. You could use the rest yourself as you're 
pretty sure your own panic at the sight of him bleeding and 
terrified will kick in soon.

He nods, not lifting his head as he adds tentatively, 
hopefully, "your room?"

You both discovered that he sleeps better when he is in your 
bedroom upstairs. You don't know if that's because it's further 
from the front door of the flat or because he feels more secure 
crowded onto your smaller bed with you wrapped protectively 
around him. It doesn't matter. You will continue to do whatever 
it takes to make him feel safe.

You kiss his cheek softly. "Okay, love."

Pressed into the curve of your body beneath the thickest 
blankets you can find, with your breath warming the back of his 
neck, he finally stops shivering.

***************

You know it would surprise people to learn that your 
relationship with Sherlock - while intimate - never involved 
sex. Not that you would ever tell anyone because it's none of 
their goddamn business. What you have defies standard labels. 
If you had to describe it you would say you are platonic 
lovers. You complete each other. You don't need to have sex to 
validate your relationship. In fact, you always believed that 
would only complicate it. Although you would be lying if you 
said you didn't desire it sometimes. You have always assumed he 
didn't and kept a respectful distance.

The first time you wake up with a hard on pressed to his thigh 
you are mortified. He tries to reassure you by reciting 
statistics about nocturnal tumescence in men your age, but you 
still feel like your body is betraying you. He was raped, for 
god's sake. He has only just fully healed physically. The last 
thing he needs is another man's hard cock anywhere near him. 
You retreat and take care of it in the shower, burning with 
shame as you try and fail to imagine anything other than his 
mouth wrapped around you, his naked body writhing beneath 
yours.

Then one morning you wake to find his hand wrapped around your 
cock, stroking languidly, your joggers simply shoved aside 
unceremoniously.

You try to bolt from the bed instinctively, but his strong arms 
hold you back, keep you pressed against his body. He shushes 
you, his rumbling voice melting your resistance, his warm 
breath curling around your ear. 

You come embarrassingly fast.

You relax in his embrace as you recover your breath, finally 
allowing yourself to enjoy it as his hands explore your body, 
his lips trailing over your shoulder, teeth nipping gently at 
your neck. You can feel his cock press insistently into your 
back.

You reach back to rub his hip and he growls. "What do you need 
me to do?"

You feel him shake his head before burying his face in the back 
of your neck. You stroke his arms soothingly, feeling him 
practically vibrate with tension and need. You twist until you 
can reach his mouth, tangling your hand in his hair and pulling 
him to meet you half way. He whimpers into the kiss and you 
feel his grip on you slacken. You turn in his arms and press 
your palm over the straining erection tenting his pants, 
rubbing slowly and deliberately.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp, his head falling back to the 
crumpled pillow. You take this as invitation and press your 
lips to his exposed throat.

"John," he moans. 

Emboldened, you push him onto his back, intent on working your 
way down his body, mapping his skin with your tongue. 

You realize your mistake a second too late.

"No," he yells, almost smashing your nose as he jolts upright 
and scrambles away from you. He doesn't get far on your smaller 
bed. 

You crouch as far away from him as possible without vacating 
the bed entirely and babble desperate apologies, disgusted by 
your loss of control.

"Stop it," he snaps, digging his palms into his forehead. 
"Just...stop! Stop apologizing."

You fall silent, watching helplessly as he calms, the tension 
bleeding from him slowly. You want to touch him, comfort him, 
but you are afraid that would only make it worse.

"Do you need me to leave," you ask tentatively.

"No," he blurts, reaching for you, gripping your hand tightly 
as if he is afraid you will bolt anyway. "No, don't...don't 
leave me." He winces, as if he is ashamed of his own need, and 
slowly releases your hand. "I shouldn't have done that. I 
miscalculated."

"You shouldn't have done what?"

"You were getting an erection. I didn't want you to run off 
again. I thought I could..." He shakes his head, disgusted. "It 
was a stupid idea."

You try to follow his logic. "Help me out here, Sherlock, 
because I don't think I understand. You're apologizing for 
wanking me?"

"Should have anticipated you would try to return the favor."

You sigh as understanding sinks in. He doesn't want to be 
touched. Not like that. Not by you. "I'm sorry, I just 
thought...I won't do it again."

He groans. "No, John, don't be an idiot. I want to have sex 
with you, I'm just not ready *now*."

You sit silently for a few moments, biting back the instinct to 
apologize again. You ease back onto the mattress fully again 
and reach toward him, rubbing his lower back with firm, yet 
cautious fingers. "Is that really what you want or is it just 
what you think I want?"

He flinches. "Can't it be both?"

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable, no. I'm perfectly happy 
with our arrangement as it is. We don't ever have to do...that. 
I would understand and I will love you just the same. 
Asexuality is nothing to be ashamed of."

He snorts. "You think I'm asexual." It's not a question, so you 
don't answer. "Just because I don't *need* to have sex doesn't 
mean I don't *want* to have sex."

"Okay. I'm sorry. You've just never...I'm sorry. You're right." 
You take your hand back, feeling awkward.

He sighs and climbs from the bed, carefully maneuvering around 
you. He plucks his dressing gown from the hook on the wall, 
wraps it around himself almost mechanically, and slips from the 
room. 

You wait until you hear violin music drifting up the stairs 
before you get dressed and follow him.

You contemplate him for a moment, standing in his usual spot by 
the window, before going into the kitchen to make some tea. You 
do it as quietly as possible so you don't disturb his 
concentration and bring the tea tray out to the table in front 
of the mantle. 

He finishes the mournful sounding tune and just stands still 
for the length of several heartbeats, the violin still tucked 
under his chin. Just as you think maybe he will start another 
song, he sets the instrument down on the music stand and drops 
wordlessly into his usual chair.

You hand him a cup, already sweetened the way he always makes 
it. He grunts softly as he accepts it.

"Was that one of yours?" You didn't recognize it, but then your 
musical knowledge isn't as comprehensive as his.

He nods and mumbles "timing is still wrong. Hand is still too 
stiff." He holds his newly mended right arm up to illustrate.

"Well, it sounded just fine to me. Bit gloomy, but nice."

His lips twitch half-heartedly and he sips his tea. "I wasn't a 
virgin," he begins quietly. "But I have abstained from all 
sexual endeavors since University because I found the process 
of acquiring partners tedious and ultimately not worth the 
distraction from far more interesting work." 

He pauses for a moment, as if he expects you to say something, 
but you remain silent. Right now, he needs you to listen.

He blows out a somewhat shaky breath. "I've never given my 
sexuality a thought. But I have thought about it since we met. 
I've dreamt about you..." he trails off and inhales slowly. 
"Anyway. It was easy to ignore my baser desires because, as you 
repeatedly stated, you are not gay."

You flinch at that and nearly interrupt, but you know he isn't 
finished yet.

"I know you have said that what happened doesn't change 
anything. But it has. These past months you have done more for 
me than I can ever repay. And you deserve better than I can 
possibly give."

"Okay, stop," you say as you sense he is headed in a direction 
you don't want to go. You set down your tea cup and lean 
forward until you are perched precariously on the edge of your 
chair, barely restraining yourself from getting up so you can 
move closer to him. "I said I wasn't gay because I had never 
been attracted to a man before. But you have made me question 
everything I thought I knew about myself. I regret having been 
too much of a coward to admit it until now and I hate myself 
because some primitive part of me actually feels *jealous* of 
the bastards who hurt you because I feel like they stole 
something from me and I have NO RIGHT..." You cut yourself off. 
You are shouting and hardly even being coherent. You swallow 
heavily and take a deep breath. "I love you," you finish 
feebly. "And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't regret 
not saying that sooner."

A long silence follows your tirade. Then he sets his cup down 
and falls wordlessly to kneel at your feet, forcing his way 
between your legs and silencing your startled protests with a 
kiss before wrapping his long arms around you and burrowing 
into your chest. You blink back tears as you recognize this 
gesture from his time in hospital. He is taking comfort in the 
sound of your heartbeat - strength in the warmth of your 
embrace.

You hold him, bury your face in his hair and whisper 
reassurances around the lump in your throat.

One week later, you hold his naked body tightly as he comes 
apart, moaning incoherently, a burst of wetness between your 
tightly pressed bodies making your already sweat slick skin 
even more slippery.

"That's it," you murmur as you both come back down, the frantic 
movements of your hips slowing. "That's it, love. I've got 
you." You stroke his back. His hip.

His grip on your shoulders loosens and he lifts his face from 
where he had buried it in your neck. His expression is 
unguarded, full of wonder, desire and trust. 

"I know," he whispers.

***********************

None of the men who survived make it to trial. The evidence is 
too overwhelming. Their prison sentences are far too lenient in 
your opinion - as they will eventually be released back into 
society - but you console yourself that by that time they will 
be old and grey. They will never make parole. Not as long as 
you and Mycroft have a say in the matter. 

You settle into your new domestic routine by degrees. You go 
back to sharing his larger bed when he acknowledges his need 
for sleep, and his nightmares - though far from gone entirely - 
are no longer as frequent or severe. 

Your first attempt at penetrative sex ends abruptly when he 
criticizes you for being too gentle. For treating him as if he 
is made of glass. He is right, of course, but you don't *want* 
to be rougher with him. Not in bed, at least. However, when he 
says something infuriating, you don't hesitate to give him a 
sharp slap on his backside right in the middle of Lestrade's 
office. Luckily, no one else is around to witness it. The 
expression on Sherlock's face is stunned and angry, yet somehow 
victorious.

The second time, he holds his tongue while you kiss and caress 
every inch of his body, taking him to the brink over and over, 
and by the time you are inside him all he can say is your name. 
It is, you think as you hold his trembling body afterward and 
whisper love-drunk nonsense in his ear, the closest you have 
ever felt to another human being. He admits as much as well 
later. 

One morning you are rudely awaked by Sherlock's voice booming 
"wake up, John, we have a case!"

You barely get your eyes open before your vision is blocked by 
your trousers, which he has thrown at you impatiently. 

You groan and seriously consider telling him to bugger off and 
then going straight back to sleep. "What time is it?"

"We've no time to lose," he continues as if you never spoke. 
"At least two lives may be at stake!"

You are alert enough to catch the jumper he throws next.

"I texted you the details. Lestrade is sending a car."

You hurry to dress as he vacates the room before retrieving 
your mobile from the dresser, groaning when you find the grisly 
photo in your inbox.

He is waiting impatiently in the sitting room, already wrapped 
in his coat and scarf.

"Are these human ears," you ask, even though you know the 
answer. 

"Yes, brilliant deduction," he says dryly, holding out your 
coat. "Whatever would I do without your medical expertise?"

You give him the withering look that sarcastic comment deserves 
and snatch the coat, shrugging into it as you follow him out 
the door. "WHY am I looking at a picture of someone's severed 
ears?"

"Not some ONE, John. No doubt once the shock wears off you will 
notice that the ears obviously once belonged to two separate 
individuals. One male and one female I'd wager, but we'll know 
for certain once we can see them in person."

You want to chastise him for being so excited by this gruesome 
case. But as you reach the curb and he hails a cab, you take a 
moment to really look at him. You recall the way he looked on 
the gurney that night in hospital, drugged and traumatized, and 
how you wondered if you would ever get your Sherlock back. And 
now here he is, dragging you out of bed in the wee hours of the 
morning, practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect 
of solving a case. 

He isn't exactly the same. The scars he bears from his ordeal 
will never fully fade, even if they are no longer visible. But 
he is stronger now.

He was both right and wrong when he said you had done more for 
him these past months than he could repay. Right because the 
healing process has been an emotional roller coaster that has 
tested your friendship and your love. Wrong because he has 
already repaid that debt. While you may not have been able to 
perfectly restore the person that he was before - an impossible 
feat, surely - he has emerged, battered and bruised, but 
resilient. And your bond is stronger than ever for having 
endured the storm together. 

"Sherlock," you call softly as the cab pulls up.

"Hmm?" He turns toward you, belatedly lowering his upraised 
arm.

You frame his face between your hands and kiss him, a fierce 
yet chaste outpouring of love and pride.

His initial surprise wears off quickly as he recognizes what 
has happened. What you are most likely thinking. He reaches to 
cradle the back of your head and deepens the kiss, heedless of 
the fact that you are in public and someone might recognize 
you.

Let them stare, you think.

"Oi," the cabbie snaps, intruding on the moment. "You gettin' 
in or not? Ain't got all day!"

Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat and draws away 
reluctantly. "Later," he murmurs, a playful promise in his eyes 
entwined with a mixture of other, deeper emotions reflecting 
what you've no doubt he can see in yours. Neither of you has to 
say anything else. Not out loud. In hindsight, you suppose you 
never did.

The grin spreads over his face again, his eyes bright with 
excitement. "The game is on," he declares before climbing into 
the waiting cab. 

You smile, shake your head a little, and climb in after him.



THE END